


Smugglers of Old

by nostalgic_breton_girl



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Dunbarrow Cove, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29984034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgic_breton_girl/pseuds/nostalgic_breton_girl
Summary: A certain young Umbranox discovers a secret passage in Castle Anvil.
Kudos: 7





	Smugglers of Old

Sometimes the Royal Quarters smell of the sea: and it is not unusual, to smell the sea, when one lives atop it, among it, but this breeze does not come in by the usual route. Does not rustle the thin curtain at the window, nor tap at the balcony door: but rather rustles the imagination of the young son of the Count, whenever he should walk past those most tempting of pillars…

He’s read stories about secret doors in castles as old as this one, and sometimes he tries pulling at things, when people aren’t watching, hopes to activate some mechanism which has fallen into disuse, but not disrepair. And then, one day, – to his perfect astonishment, – he does.

The secret door is in his parents’ room, and he is careful to close it behind him, wonders if they know about it. The air down here is so musty that he doubts it. But there it is, outside of imagination, the sea air which came from nowhere. The smell of salt, at least. Like there had been sailors going to and fro, their boots yet damp. A breath, and he can see them almost – 

The passage leads to another door, wooden this time, and so perfectly un-secret that he is distressed to find it nevertheless barred to him, locked. This door has not been opened in so long, yet the wood and the locks have held remarkably, and no amount of brute force will make it budge. And some amount of brute force will, eventually, bring someone running. 

He is so very intrigued by this door, that he learns to pick locks. There are many who can teach him, and he comes to know where to find them. There’s something most satisfying about leaning against a door one must not open, and toying with the lock, and hearing it click. So he learns to pick locks, and then – evading his parents, evading the servants on their endless circulations, he returns, and the door opens, and he is sure he can  _ feel _ the sea breeze. He is a citizen of Anvil, after all.

There is a network of tunnels – built of stone and timbers, like the castle cellars – and then another door, and the salt smell becomes intense, and he tumbles through into a cave.

‘Divines,’ he exclaims, when he sees – out of reach of the sea, out of reach of all but time and barnacles – the old crates which are stacked in here, half-lit by the sun on the invading waves. Crates and barrels, rotting slowly; an improvised slipway smoothed from the rock, smoothed more by the sea; this, this is a smuggler’s cave. 

He imagines the boats coming in, by night; tries the jump from ledge to slippery rocks. Imagines the whispers and the excitement: and gods, the sea breeze, if only he were on a boat, and out at sea; if only he had that freedom – 

Smugglers of old, smelling of salt, damp-strewn; their erupting camaraderie... Smugglers of old in their secret cove, outside of prying eyes, talk more sparkling than the lantern-lit waves. He takes off his jacket, imagines that his shirt were a little less kempt, a little more ruffled. Imagines coming in, with stolen goods, a glimmering haul; imagines sharing the wealth, beneath the very royal bowels of the castle. Smugglers of old, who had defied his own family!

And the sea-air is almost unbearable, in the imaginings which it evokes: he breathes it, lives it, sighs at the thought that he, Corvus, were born an Umbranox, and not a nameless pirate. Runs his fingers over the damp crates, the prickles of the barnacles; dampens his shoes at the edges of the waves; and dreams, and dreams of those smugglers of old!


End file.
